Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her,
(I mean, that married her,―alack, good man!—
And therefore banish'd,) is a creature such
As, to seek through the regions of the earth
For one his like, there would be something failing
In him that should compare. I do not think,
So fair an outward, and such stuff within,

Endows a man but he.

2 Gentleman.

You speak him far.2

1 Gentleman. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together, rather than unfold

His measure duly.3

2 Gentleman.

What's his name, and birth?

1 Gentleman. I cannot delve him to the root: His

father

Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour,

4

Against the Romans, with Cassibelan:
But had his titles by Tenantius, whom
He serv'd with glory and admir'd success:
So gain'd the sur-addition, Leonatus:
And had, besides this gentleman in question,
Two other sons, who, in the wars o' the time,

Died with their swords in hand; for which their father
(Then old and fond of issue) took such sorrow,
That he quit being; and his gentle lady,
Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd
As he was born. The king, he takes the babe
To his protection; calls him Posthumus;
Breeds him, and makes him of his bed-chamber:
Puts him to all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of; which he took,
As we do air, fast as 'twas minister'd: and
In his spring became a harvest: Liv'd in court
(Which rare it is to do) most prais'd, most lov'd:
A sample to the youngest; to the more mature,

2 i. e. You praise him extensively,

3 My praise, however extensive, is within his merit.
4 The father of Cymbeline.

A glass that feated them; and to the graver,
A child that guided dotards: to his mistress,
For whom he now is banished,—her own price
Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read,
What kind of man he is.

2 Gentleman.
Even out of your report.

I honour him

But, 'pray you, tell me,

Is she sole child to the king?

1 Gentleman.

His only child.

He had two sons, (if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it,) the eldest of them, at three years old,
I' the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stolen and to this hour, no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.

2 Gentleman.

How long is this ago? 1 Gentleman. Some twenty years.

2 Gentleman. That a king's children should be so con:

vey'd!

So slackly guarded! And the search so slow,

That could not trace them!

1 Gentleman.

Howsoe'er 'tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at,
Yet is it true, sir.

2 Gentleman.

I do well believe you.

1 Gentleman. We must forbear; Here comes the

gentleman,

The queen, and princess.

SCENE II.-The same.

[Exeunt.

Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN.

Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most step-mothers,

Evil-eyed unto you: you are my prisoner, but

Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthúmus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,

5 Formed their manners.

I will be known

your

advocate: marry, yet

The fire of rage is in him; and 'twere good,

You lean'd unto his sentence, with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.

Posthumus.

I will from hence to-day,

Queen.

Please your highness,

You know the peril :—

I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king
Hath charg'd you should not speak together.

Imogen.

[Exit QUEEN.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband,
I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing,
(Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what

His rage can do on me: You must be gone
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.

Posthumus.

My queen! my mistress! O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause

To be suspected of more tenderness

Than doth become a man! I will remain

The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth.
My residence in Rome, at one Philario's;
Who to my father was a friend, to me
Known but by letter: thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.

Queen.

Re-enter QUEEN.

Be brief, I pray you:

If the king come, I shall incur I know not

How much of his displeasure: Yet I'll move him [4side.
To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences.

[Exit.

Posthumus.

Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu!
Imogen. Nay, stay a little:

Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,

When Imogen is dead.

Posthumus.

How! how! another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death!-Remain thou here

[Putting on the Ring.
While sense can keep it on! And sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss; so in our trifles
I still win of you: For my sake, wear this;
It is a manacle of love; I'll place it

Cymbeline. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from

my sight!

If. after this command, thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: Away!

Thou art poison to my blood.

Posthumus.

The gods protect you!

[Exit.

And bless the good remainders of the court!
I am gone.

Imogen. There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
Cymbeline.

O disloyal thing,

That shouldst repair my youth; thou heapest

A year's age on me!

Imogen.

I beseech you, sir,

Harm not yourself with your vexation; I

Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare3
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

Cymbeline.

Past grace? obedience? Imogen. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. Cymbeline. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

Imogen. O bless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.9

Cymbeline. Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne

A seat for baseness?

It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus:
You bred him as my playfellow; and he is
A man, worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.

Cymbeline.

What!-art thou mad?

Imogen. Almost, sir; Heaven restore me!-'Would

And pen her up.

Queen.

'Beseech your patience:-Peace,

Dear lady daughter, peace;-Sweet sovereign,

8 A more exquisite feeling.

A kite.

1

Cattle-keeper.